


Ever After

by Raddtaire



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, Sleeping Beauty Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-27 21:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,263
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22812109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Raddtaire/pseuds/Raddtaire
Summary: At his christening, Enjolras was cursed: on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, the prince would not die, but instead, would fall into a deep sleep, only to be awakened by true love’s kiss.A retelling of Sleeping Beauty wherein Grantaire attempts to break a curse.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 169





	Ever After

At his christening, Enjolras was cursed. After interrupting the party in a cloud of black smoke, the spurned sorceress announced he would prick his finger on a spindle and die on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, her laugh ringing through the halls. In retrospect, this was probably why the king and queen allowed their only son and heir to leave the castle whenever he wanted, and to run and learn and play with all the ordinary children of the kingdom. If he was already cursed, what worse could happen? 

And there was still hope. There had been a fairy at the christening who hadn’t yet given the young prince a gift when the sorceress appeared. She couldn’t lift the curse, but she could change it: on the eve of his eighteenth birthday, the prince would not die, but instead, would fall into a deep sleep, only to be awakened by true love’s kiss. Even luckier, that same fairy had recently fallen in love with Enjolras’ friend, Marius. 

“Enjolras, you proud, stupid bastard, why didn’t you just _tell_ us?” Combeferre said into his hands.

They had all gathered at the big table in the tavern’s loft. Enjolras was supposed to be there to celebrate his eighteenth birthday with his friends before getting hauled back to the castle for the more official, and less fun, ball. Courfeyrac had been about to borrow a horse to go to the castle himself to get their friend and leader when Gavroche burst into the tavern with the news: a sorceress had driven everyone from the palace and surrounded it with a wall of thorns. Cosette revealed the curse, and that Enjolras had sworn her to secrecy about it. The sorceress, meanwhile, had turned herself into a dragon and every few minutes could be seen circling the castle in the air, guarding the sleeping prince.

“Being cursed is still stigmatized.” Cossette said. Her hair curled delicately over her pointed ears. “He probably thought he could just break it himself by avoiding spinning wheels for the day.”

“We could have _helped_.” Combeferre protested. 

“True love’s kiss is the only way to break the spell?” Jehan asked next to him.

“It’s the oldest magic there is.” Cossette confirmed. “And it was the only thing the curse yielded to.” 

“It’s entirely in character, you have to admit.” Grantaire said. He sat on the edge of the windowsill just outside the circle of the table.

“Grantaire, not now.” Courfeyrac chastised gently.

“I’m serious.” Although jesting would have been entirely in character _for him_ , even he could admit, now his hands were trembling too much for him to trust holding his wine. “It’s like last year, when he went to bargain with the police for Eponine without telling us. When he thinks he can protect us, he acts alone.” 

“So what do you propose we do?” Combeferre asked.

“We don’t do that. We don’t act alone.” 

“Are you saying we take Montparnasse’s plan?” 

Was he saying that? 

Montparnasse had strode into their little tavern loft right as they were running out of rescue ideas to introduce his own plan: he would attack the thorns with sword and shield from the west, and they would attack with fire from the east. Since he was a knight, he explained, he would be the only one able to cut through the thorns successfully. But, he stressed, he would only have a fighting chance if someone else distracted the thorns and the dragon. 

“What do you mean ‘distract the thorns’?” Courfeyrac had asked. 

“The thorns grow back as soon as the branches are cut. You have to work quickly and constantly, which I can do.” 

Combeferre leaned back in his chair, frowning. “Why are you doing this?” He asked. “Attacking sentient thorns and then a dragon is a dangerous task, and you don’t even like Enjolras. What’s in it for you?” 

Montparnasse shrugged far too casually. “I can appreciate looking at him, even when listening to him is a chore. And the whole point of the ball tonight was so the queen could find a good match for the prince. True love’s kiss sounds like a good match to me.” The uproar that had created had not quelled for an hour. 

Their little band of friends had hated Montparnasse’s crew since childhood, a rivalry that had grown, mutually, as they grew. Now Montparnasse sat among them like he owned the tavern itself, his armor bundled at his side and one of the largest swords Grantaire had ever seen sheathed at his hip. But they had all seen Montparnasse in the jousting and melee contests in the summer: he was a brutal fighter, and, thus, possibly their only shot at getting into the castle. _What do you propose we do_ , Combeferre had asked him. 

“I hate Montparnasse as much as anyone here.” Montparnasse nodded: the feeling was, at least, mutual. “But…”

It shouldn’t have been him, turning to his friends, convincing them of a plan that no one liked but was the only option, it should have been Enjolras. But Enjolras was gone, was in danger, needed help, and Grantaire would bend himself to impossible shapes to bring him back. 

“Attacking from two sides is the only plan that sounds like it might have a chance of getting into the castle. Once we’re inside, it’s up the curse to decide who breaks it. True love’s kiss can’t be broken by anything less, and, full offense meant, I don’t think that’s you, Montparnasse.”

“And your chances are better?” Montparnasse sneered. Any other night he would have had a reply twice as cutting, but tonight the blood rushed to his face and he stepped back out of the light. He had stepped into it without realizing it to speak. 

“I’m with Grantaire.” Courfeyrac said after a moment. “We can decide what to do to wake Enjolras when we get to him, but we have to actually get to him first.” 

“Seconded.” Jehan said.

“All in favor?” A chorus of grim agreement answered Combeferre, and the action began. Tinder and oil were gathered while Montparnasse unpacked his armor. To try to extend their odds, it was decided they would approach from three directions rather than just two. Combeferre, Feuilly, Bahorel, and Joly would burn the thorns from the north, and Courfeyrac, Jehan, Bossuet, and Marius would come with fire from the east. Montparnasse would attack from the west. Cossette would stay to the south to offer help if anything went wrong, and she requested Grantaire stay with her for back up.

They set out within the hour. Courfeyrac borrowed someone’s cart to haul the supplies, and Montparnasse, in full armor, led the way. Dusk descended as the castle came closer and closer, and even in the darkness, the dragon could be seen as a faint black ribbon overhead. Grantaire trailed the end of the group, sick in his stomach and heart. What if it didn’t work and they all got killed? What if it did, and true love’s kiss decided Montparnasse was right for the job? He was a coward in equal parts, he realized, that he feared for their mission, and that he had never told Enjolras how he felt and now would never get the chance. 

At the edge of the castle, with the moon just emerging, each side peeled off. The plan was that they would make their way in the dark to each side of the castle and, at the ninth bell, attack at once. Grantaire watched with Cosette as one by one their friends disappeared, sneaking along the edge of the thorns with their kindling and flints clutched to their chests. Up in the air, the dragon circled the castle. 

“Come with me.” Cosette grabbed his hand and began dragging him toward the thorns. 

“Cosette, where are we going?” The determination in her eyes and her grip was concerning.

“We’re going to test a hypothesis.” She answered brightly.

The thorns were even more intimidating up close. Their stalks and branches grew in jet black, close-knit tangles, taller than even Combeferre, and the thorns themselves stretched longer than his hand to pierce the air. Cosette pulled a hatchet from the folds of her cloak and hacked a vine from its base. Faster than Grantaire had thought anything could grow, another grew up in its place. 

“Montparnasse was right.” Cosette hummed thoughtfully. Tucking the hatchet back into her cloak, she pulled out a pair of long garden shears. 

“Is your cloak magic, or does it just have a lot of pockets?” Grantaire asked.

“A bit of both actually.” Cosette smiled and began snipping the thorns from the vines with the shears. 

“Oh.” Grantaire said after a moment of her work, “Oh, Cosette, you’re a _genius_.” 

No matter how many thorns Cosette snipped, the vines never moved and the thorns didn’t grow back. There was soon a thick but completely thornless copse of vines in front of them. Cosette smiled with satisfaction and handed Grantaire the shears. 

“I suspected as much.” Cosette said, “The vines don’t register the thorns being cut. It’s not damage so much as it’s pruning, and gardens like pruning.”

“We have to tell the others!” 

“No.” Cosette said. “ _I_ need to tell the others. _You_ need to get going. It will be slow, but Montparnasse and the others are still preparing, so you’ll have a head start.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“I’ll hang onto this, it will slow you down.” Cosette unclasped his cloak for him, ignoring him. “Once you’re inside, you can’t let the sorceress see you. You won’t win in a fight with her, so you’ll have to sneak and hide. It’s a good thing you’re a thief.” 

“I’m a bard. I _used_ to be a thief.”

“A thief who forgets how to be a thief is a bad thief.” 

Grantaire looked up at the castle, looming over the thorns. If he looked very closely, he could see the castle gate through the vines. He had been a thief at one point, true, but no treasure had ever seemed worth risking his life. If the treasure was Enjolras though, alive and awake, that was worth every risk. 

“Why me?” He said, very quietly. 

Cosette’s gaze softened and she put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Because I think you’re the only one who can wake him up.”

That was something, Grantaire decided, that he would think about later, on the other side of the thorns. 

It was slow work, snipping the thorns and pushing through the crowded vines. His forearms soon burned and sweat gathered on his back. Soon it was hard to see the castle or the way back, and he had to hope he was still going forward, hadn’t gotten turned around and started going sideways. If he was only making a path his own size, then hopefully the sorceress couldn’t see him. Even more hopefully, Montparnasse in all his armor would be loud and flashy and make a distracting target, more distracting than a thief-turned-bard sneaking around corners. It occurred to Grantaire, as he snipped thorns away, that the castle was huge and he had no idea where Enjolras was, and that he would have to find him before Montparnasse did. And if he found him – when he found him…

Then he would figure out what came next.

The church bell began to toll, distantly, and Grantaire could see the door in the castle gate through the vines. The chimes came slowly, and Grantaire lifted his arms, muscles burning, to snip away the last few thorns. Suddenly, there was a roar from the sky: some destruction to the thorny wall had been noticed, but it was impossible to tell from where. _Focus_. Cosette would have told the others what was going on by now. The only thing to do was keep going. 

He stumbled out of the thorns with aching arms and coat torn from where he had missed an errant thorn or two. How fast would Montparnasse make it through the thorns? Would Cosette and the others still attempt to advance through the vines too, or just distract with the fire? Grantaire pushed the worry from his mind and pulled open the door in the castle gate. 

Torches still burned in their sconces, but the courtyard had been deserted quickly, that much was clear. Tables and chairs were pushed aside, along with dropped weapons and the occasional handkerchief or shoe lost on the way out. They had been preparing for a party, the largest the kingdom had seen since Enjolras had been born. Grantaire folded the shears and tucked them into his belt, the better to step quietly. He kept to the shadows as he moved toward the innards of the castle. There had been no sight or sound of the sorceress since the roar from the air. Grantaire hoped that was a good sign. 

“You made it past my thorns.” 

Grantaire bit back a rather uncourageous sound and whirled around from the alcove he had ducked into. The sorceress stood, filling up the hall he had just came from. She was beautiful in a way that was terrifying at the same time, and her eyes glittered in a way that suggested she was something quite far from mortal. Grantaire felt sick: he had made it this far only to stumble. Forgive me, Enjolras.

“What do you seek here that is so important as to trespass on my domain?” She strode forward, slowly raising a tall black staff of the same material the vines were made out of. 

“I seek only the truth.” Grantaire said quickly, reminding himself to breathe so his voice wouldn’t shake. The threads of half a plot assembled in his mind and he prayed he could tie them fast enough to save his life. “Forgive me, your…magnificence.”

The sorceress stopped and arched an eyebrow delicately in something like vague curiosity, as if she wanted to know what kind of spider had wandered into her kitchen before she killed it. Grantaire could see Cosette was right, he would never beat the sorceress if it came to direct conflict. Grantaire’s strength didn’t lie in combat though: it lay in words. While Enjolras was good with words, able to rally citizens and persuade people to participate in votes and petitions, Grantaire was good with words in the opposite direction. The sorceress stopped and arched an eyebrow delicately in something like vague curiosity, as if she wanted to know what kind of spider had wandered into her kitchen before she killed it. 

“My lady, you must know that word of your deeds, of your possession of the castle is spreading far and wide as we speak. I am a simple bard. Stories are my livelihood, and when I heard about how you took this castle, and how, if I may presume, you plan to take this kingdom,” he risked looking up and her brow rose further – so he was right, the castle was just the beginning, “I know a good story when I see one, and yours will be the most amazing of all. If you might allow me to live to tell it.” 

“A story-teller.” She scoffed, but she also lowered her staff. “Am I really to believe you risked life and limb to arrive here, for a _story_? And I suppose you have no connection to the children,” she sneered around the word, “burning and hacking through my thorns?” 

“I only know _of_ them, my lady: rabble-rousers the lot of them. It is only coincidence and my own bad luck to arrive at the same time as them. This is far from the first time I have run into fire for a good story, and although the danger of trespassing on your domain is perhaps the most I have faced, I believe it is for the best story I will ever have the privilege to tell.” 

“What is this story you keep speaking of? How do you presume to know why I am here?” The brow had lowered, and the sorceress spoke pointedly. Her patience was running out and he would have to speak quickly and well. 

“I have heard rumor of the prince’s christening, and how you defended your honor, how you are still defending it now. My lady, I know how stories grow and spread, and tomorrow there will be stories of an evil sorceress who destroyed an innocent kingdom out of her own jealousy, but, your brilliance, that is not what I see here. The story I see is of someone with pride, with ambition and the nerve to follow it through. 

“One might tell a story,” He was on a knife’s edge, the sorceress was interested, but he might lose that interest in a moment, “a story of two children who escaped an evil witch in the forest, but really that is a story of a woman defending her home from those who would destroy it. One might also tell a story of an evil witch poisoning a princess with an apple, but isn’t that a story of a wise, established ruler refusing to cede her power to a sixteen year old girl – a decision that in any land would surely be hailed as wisdom? 

“I can see what story will be told tomorrow, and what the truth is in front of me.” Grantaire went down on one knee, took the bravado out of his voice, and risked looking up at the sorceress. “I said before that stories are my livelihood, but they are also my life blood. When I heard what was happening here, I could not sit by and wait. Tomorrow the sun will rise on a new world, a different world. If you would allow me to witness this night from wherever I will be the most out of your way, I would owe you…more than my life: my voice and every song I sing henceforth.”

The sorceress was looking at him in a way he feared, but that also made him think he was not about to be incinerated. She looked thoughtful, and there was the faintest edge of a smile on her face. 

“And what will you be witnessing tonight?” She asked slowly.

“The beginning of your reign, my lady.” He said smoothly.

Her smile widened into something real, something fierce and cutting, like a knife. If Grantaire were a different person, more like Montparnasse maybe, he would have congratulated himself on talking his way into a job. But Enjolras was somewhere on the other side of the sorceress, and that was where he had to be. 

When Grantaire had entered the courtyard like a thief, sliding it open slowly, and only wide enough for him so slip through. Montparnasse entered the opposite way. From the sound of it echoing down the corridor, Montparnasse had kicked the door open hard enough for it to hit the opposing wall and swing back on its hinges. His stomping over the flagstones could have been heard, Grantaire guessed, from beyond the wall of thorns. The smile on the sorceress face soured and turned to a mood of grim annoyance. 

“You mentioned being out of my way.” She said, shifting her staff to her other hand. 

“You shall barely know I am here.” She had already turned and was stalking back toward the courtyard where Montparnasse was bellowing for the usurper of the castle to show herself. 

Grantaire didn’t let himself sigh in relief, just turned and ran further into the castle, ran until he reached the stairs to the parapet, and then stopped, chest heaving. He had to _think_. He had only been in the castle a handful of times, not nearly enough to know anything about its layout beyond the courtyard, the ballroom, and the nearest lavatories. Would Enjolras be in his bedroom? Where was that? 

No, there had to be a clue somewhere. Grantaire straightened up and scanned the upper windows for lights, casements left open, anything. Nothing, and then…there, high above him in a lone window of the center tower. There was a flicker so faint he thought it had been starlight at first, but now it was unmistakable: the faintest light flickered in the long narrow window. _The highest room of the tallest tower_ , Grantaire remembered a line like that from the old fairy tales. 

He found a lamp in the guard’s closet near the stairs, and lit it on the third try. The main staircase began wide and grand with carpeted steps and railings, but as it wound ever upward it became less grand, more ordinary. Grantaire could feel through his boots where the carpet was thinner in the center from the feet of castle staff going up and down day in and day out. Through a window, he glimpsed briefly the plume of smoke rising from the thorns to the east. Through another he heard the sound of conflict in the courtyard, but couldn’t see well enough to tell what was happening. How long would Montparnasse last in battle against the sorceress? Long enough for him to find Enjolras? Up and up, he could feel the tower narrow as it reached for the sky.

Then quite suddenly the stairs simply stopped and gave way to a landing on which there was only one door. When Grantaire tested the handle, it swung open easily. 

The room was small and warm with one window on whose sill sat a lamp flickering low. Moonlight spilled in through the glass and across Enjolras’ hair where it spilled around his head. He lay on a low couch, the kind the wealthy ladies of the court liked to have around for fainting onto at dramatic news. He had been nearly dressed for the ball in a fine linen shirt and trousers, but was missing his coat. One arm lay across his ribs and the other reached off the couch, as if he had been holding something. Grantaire stepped into the room and felt his foot bump against something: a spindle rolled away from his shoe harmlessly. 

Grantaire swallowed and froze where he was by the door. Surely he should wait for his friends so they could figure out what to do? Or send them a signal somehow. But how would he get a signal to them, and how would he get them past the sorceress? He wasn’t even sure how much time he had. It occurred to him, like a cold hole in his stomach, that he was on his own. 

Enjolras’ intensity was tempered in sleep. With the fire in his eyes shuttered and his chest gently rising and falling, he looked at once peaceful and entirely unlike himself. Grantaire could hear Cosette in his head as he put the lamp down; _I think you’re the only one who can wake him up_. 

There was a certain finality to being true love’s kiss. While there had never been anyone else but Enjolras for him, Grantaire had always planned on moving on…eventually. Enjolras was never going to return his feelings, so Grantaire had kept the idea in the back of his mind that eventually his admiration, his affection, would fade. True love’s kiss meant something that Grantaire had been very good at not admitting: that Enjolras was everything to him, that he could move on but never really get over the man, that all the times he had looked at Enjolras and thought _I love you_ he had been right. His love was true and real and deep enough make, or break, magic, and, unlike the curse, there was no way to lift it. 

Everything went through his mind in a moment, and then he was kneeling down by the couch and brushing the hair away Enjolras’ face. What he felt, all the pain in his chest that could only be described as anguish, didn’t matter: the man he loved was trapped in a cursed sleep. Grantaire leaned down and kissed Enjolras as gently as he could, as if he wasn’t trying to wake him up at all. 

The effect was instantaneous. Before his lips had left Enjolras’ mouth, he felt him sigh. Grantaire hadn’t fully pulled away when Enjolras’ eyes blinked open and caught him like a deer was caught in the eyes of a wolf. It _worked_. Enjolras was awake and _alive_ , and Grantaire found himself so relieved he forgot to be scared. 

“R.” Enjolras’ voice was the whisper of someone who had slept very deep for a very long time. 

“How do you feel?” He helped Enjolras sit up with a hand on his back. Enjolras ran a hand through his hair and rubbed his eyes, the effects of the sleep still clinging to him. Grantaire felt torn between relief, anxiety, and intense affection. It had worked, and they might not make it past the sorceress, but Enjolras wasn’t trapped anymore. 

“A little hazy.” Enjolras said slowly. “I don’t remember…how I got here. I was helping with the party and then...something was calling to me. Oh god, how long has it been?” 

“Not long, only six hours or so. Is that blood?” 

Enjolras looked and saw the brown stain on his palm. Grantaire took his right hand in both of his and they saw it at the same time: a cut in the pad of his third finger.

“Does it hurt?” 

“Just stings a little.” Enjolras said softly. ““How did you know? About the curse?” 

“Cosette told us. She helped me get here. Combeferre’s fairly mad you didn’t tell anyone.” 

Enjolras smiled faintly, a little self-abashedly. Grantaire was still knelt in front of him, very aware of how close they were, and that Enjolras’ hand was still in his. 

“We should probably get going.” Grantaire said, more to Enjolras hand. “I didn’t plan for…after. I don’t know what to do now, but going somewhere with more escape routes would probably be good.” 

When he looked up, Enjolras was touching his lips absently with his other hand. He pulled his hand away, when their gaze met, as if he’d gotten caught. 

“I’m sorry about all this.” He said sheepishly. 

“It’s not your fault.” Grantaire said. “You didn’t ask to be cursed as an infant.”

“No, I mean...I didn’t mean for you to find out like this.” 

Grantaire didn’t know what to say, because he didn’t know what Enjolras was talking about. Maybe he was still spacy from the sleep. 

“I wanted to tell you in person, but I wanted to find the right time and I was still working up the nerve as well.” He stopped and shook his head ruefully. “I guess if you’re here, then you already knew, didn’t you?” 

Grantaire wanted to say the right thing. Enjolras seemed nervous and sad, though Grantaire couldn’t think of why. When Enjolras looked at him he looked almost bleak. 

“Enjolras, help me understand. What do I already know? 

Enjolras sighed the way he did when Grantaire was annoying him, which was often but Grantaire saw his mouth quirk up in something like affection. The sound of his voice when he spoke sounded, it struck Grantaire, like he had sounded to himself when he had realized he would never love anyone but Enjolras. 

“Grantaire, you broke my curse with true love’s kiss.” 

“I did, but…”

Distantly, he felt his heart drop to the bottom of his stomach, and then both of those drop to his knees. He felt both Enjolras’ hands holding his own, though he didn’t look away from his face to see. So Enjolras had known all along. He’d always thought...not that he was subtle, but that he had at least played it off a little. Apparently not. But still, Enjolras was alive and alright, and if they both made it out of the castle that way, Grantaire could...would face whatever rejection Enjolras had bravely. 

“Enjolras, my love for you never needed to be returned.” His gaze turned sharp. Grantaire froze and no - he would keep going. He could look Enjolras in the eye for this. “It grew without my control. I never intended to burden you with it either. And now...I’m just glad it’s done something other than plague me. If you are alive and well, and if you’ll permit me to shadow you as I did before…”

He meant to say that that was all he wanted, but Enjolras didn’t let him. His hands came up to touch his jaw and run through his hair, to touch him in a way they had never touched before, and then Enjolras was kissing him. Warm and awake, Enjolras was kissing him too much for Grantaire to grasp, so he tipped his head back and dove in. His hands fisted in the fancy shirt and Enjolras opened his knees to better pull Grantaire up against him. It would be okay if he died here, Grantaire decided. He had saved Enjolras and Enjolras was kissing him, and that was enough for his life. 

The sorceress, as a dragon, roared, louder and more furious by several degrees than he had heard before and that was enough to make Enjolras pull away but not release Grantaire from his arms. 

“Should we be concerned about that?” 

“Did I mention the sorceress is also a dragon?” Grantaire murmured, nosing against Enjolras’ collarbone. 

“No, you failed to mention that.” 

“Montparnasse is supposed to be taking care of it.” 

“Why is Montparnasse here?” 

“I’ll explain on the way down.” 

“Does it have something to do with the garden shears in your belt?”

The trip down the tower was a good deal slower than the way up: Grantaire’s legs burned from the initial climb, and Enjolras was still shaking off the remnants of the spell. He explained the initial plan, how Cosette sent him into the thorns with a head start, and the story he had given the sorceress. When they made it down the tower, Enjolras had still not let go of his hand, and Grantaire decided he wasn’t going to let go either. 

“What are we going to do about the sorceress?” Enjolras asked. 

“I was hoping you’d have some ideas.” Grantaire admitted. “You don’t know any secret passageways out of the castle, do you?” 

“None that I would be able to find in the dark.” 

They listened at the door out to the courtyard for several minutes, but the other side sounded suspiciously silent. 

“Maybe they moved somewhere else?” Enjolras whispered.

“Maybe they destroyed each other.”

“One way to find out.” 

The courtyard contained neither. The sorceress and Montparnasse crouched on opposite sides of the courtyard, neither surrendering, but neither attacking. Montparnasse looked as if he had been about to lose the fight very badly, and the sorceress, in her human form once more, looked as if most of her energy had been suddenly drained without warning. Her skin was ashen, and her hands trembled slightly as she leaned back against the wheel of an overturned cart, the far half of which was smoldering. 

“ _You_.” She spat out when she caught sight of Grantaire. “You _had_ to break the curse right as I was about to finish this.” 

“You rat’s ass!” Montparnasse looked enraged, as much as he could with one eye very swollen and severely dented armor. The sorceress barked out a harsh laugh at him. 

“You _fool_ ,” She crowed, “you’re not even his true love! What were you _doing_ here?” 

“It was my plan! I was supposed to get there first to free the prince!” Montparnasse was struggling to his feet, but it was taking quite a bit of time and effort: he seemed very bruised, and his armor was so dented the joints weren’t bending. 

“True love’s kiss isn’t first come, first served, darling.” The sorceress was still having a good laugh to herself. 

“What do we do?” Grantaire whispered. 

“I don’t think she’s still dangerous.” Enjolras said, watching the sorceress. “Breaking the curse must have hurt her somehow.”

“You’ve guessed correctly.” The sorceress said. Grantaire feared for a moment as she grasped her staff, but she only planted it in the ground and pulled herself to her feet with what looked like the only strength she had left. 

“Curses yield a high reward, but have a high risk. When one is broken, it backfires on the one who cast it. Now if someone could open the gate, that would be _wonderful_.” 

“Wait,” Grantaire said as Enjolras moved toward the gate, “what if it’s a trap?” 

“It’s not.” The sorceress called out. “It’s just there’s a horse on the other side trying to get in.” 

Enjolras peered through the gate-door, and then pulled the gate open. Montparnasse’s horse trotted through happily, right past its knight, and up to the sorceress who smiled faintly and patted its neck. 

“The horse likes her.” Enjolras observed. 

“It’s probably just glad to she’s not Montparnasse.” Grantaire countered. 

Montparnasse had almost gotten himself upright, but not quite, and the sorceress was attempting to pull herself up into the saddle with a great deal of difficulty. Grantaire could see a vein standing out in her temple as she searched for strength she didn’t have, and felt abruptly somewhat sorry for her. She didn’t seem to be much of a threat anymore, no matter what her plans of domination had been. Slowly, they went over to her, and Grantaire let her brace a foot in his hands so she could mount while Enjolras held her staff. 

“If I may be so bold,” Enjolras said as he handed her staff up to her, “there’s a kingdom a few days journey to the north and west of here. The king is notoriously unfair to his citizens, but the people have never had the strength to overthrow him before. They might welcome the arrival of someone to take his place.” 

The sorceress gave him a long, appraising look. “I will consider this.” She said, finally. 

And with that she tapped her heels against the horse’s sides and the two of them trotted out the gate and into the darkness. Enjolras followed her with a torch to the gate and peered out. 

“The thorns are gone.” He announced. 

It was when Enjolras left his side that Montparnasse fully teetered into his upright footing and lunged at Grantaire. His sword didn’t swing as fast, but the force was full of the anger and frustration that had built since Grantaire arrived in the courtyard with Enjolras’ hand in his, and the full ten minutes of staggering into a standing position couldn’t have helped. Grantaire only turned when Enjolras cried out, and then Montparnasse was bearing down on him with barely enough time to reach for the closest thing at hand. 

Garden shears are not an optimal weapon for a duel, but against a long sword that had already faced heavy damage from being beaten repeatedly and ineffectively against dragon scales, it was perfectly suitable. The thin steel of the sword caught the thick blades of the garden shears where they had fallen open when Grantaire had thrown them up to block the blow. The steal shattered on impact into a half dozen pieces and left a handled stump in Montparnasse’s hand. What’s more, Montparnasse didn’t seem to have accounted for the force of the blow not driving through Grantaire’s body, and he lost his tenuous balance and fell over again. 

“Are you okay?” Enjolras asked.

“Perfect. It will take him” Grantaire nodded toward Montparnasse, flat on the ground and cursing, “a good while to get back up again, I suspect. We should use the head start.” 

The moon was high; Grantaire suspected it was approaching midnight. With the moonlight spilling over the empty field where the thorns had been, they walked easily toward the east. Grantaire could see a faint flicker of fire and figures gathered around it, their friends waiting for news from the castle. Enjolras’ hand brushed against his once as they walked, and the second time their fingers intertwined. 

“You know,” Enjolras said after a moment’s pause, “I think there’s a hefty reward for rescuing a prince.” 

“Is there?” Grantaire couldn’t parse Enjolras’ tone, but any talk of reward must be a joke. Enjolras’ safety was enough. 

“Something like half the kingdom.” Enjolras mused. “And the prince’s hand in marriage.” 

He said it like he would announce how much it had rained, or how much grain had been harvested, and Grantaire knew whatever Enjolras was talking about, it wasn’t a joke. 

“I don’t know anything about ruling.” He said slowly, “I wouldn’t know what to do with half a kingdom.” 

Around them the fireflies were beginning to return, blinking back over the space that had once been so suddenly full. Grantaire’s heart felt full in his chest now. 

“What about the hand of the prince?” Enjolras asked quietly. 

Grantaire pulled them to a gentle stop and pressed his lips to Enjolras’ knuckles where their hands were still joined. 

“I would take the hand of the prince,” He said, “if it was freely given.” 

This time when Enjolras kissed him, Grantaire was ready. It had seemed impossible barely an hour before, that Enjolras would fit so perfectly in his arms, that he would want to be there, or that he would always have a hand tangled in his hair. 

“It is freely given.” Enjolras murmured. “I really won’t judge you if you want half the kingdom as well.”

“Yes, you will. That’s the side you want to turn into a publicly elected council.” Grantaire said. “And I’d rather just have you.”

**Author's Note:**

> I stress-wrote this as I started a new job and needed to get the idea of Grantaire sweet-talking a sorceress out of my head. Thank you so much for reading, and by all means find me on tumblr, also going by Raddtaire.


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